


Next to You

by ClaraxBarton



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Blow Jobs, F/F, F/M, Hand Jobs, High School Reunions, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Murder, Shrunkyclunks, Violence, assassinations, gross pointe blank AU, tags updated as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2020-10-29 02:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20789006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaraxBarton/pseuds/ClaraxBarton
Summary: Bucky Barnes hasn't been back to Brooklyn in ten years, not since he ran away from the love of his life and joined the Army. Now, thanks to a meddling best friend, Bucky is headed back to Brooklyn for his high school reunion - and a gig killing a bad guy - and finds himself face to face with the man he's spent most of his life in love with.A Gross Pointe Blank AU





	1. I'll Show You Mine if You Show Me Yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luvsanime02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvsanime02/gifts).

> This is for Ro, my amazing beta reader, who has put up with me for FIVE YEARS. COUNT THEM FIVE. She's the reason I'm still writing, the reason I have so many hundreds of thousands of words on this site, the reason I have the confidence to put those words out there and the never-ending support for my writing and my life. I'm so damn lucky to know her, and I just...
> 
> Ro, you're the best and I love you and I'm hoping this next year is everything you deserve because 2019 has sure as shit not been.
> 
> And I cannot believe you went through and beta read your own birthday fic. I mean I can. Because you're just. Otherworldly levels of amazing.

* * *

* * *

  
  


“This place smells like feet,” Bucky muttered as he stacked towels on top of an already precarious stack of towels.

A snort of laughter sounded in his ear.

“How unexpected. You being in a men’s locker room and all.” Natasha’s voice was crystal clear through the earpiece in Bucky’s ear. 

“It’s disgusting,” he complained. 

“What, the human body?”

“The collection of so many in such a humid place.”

“This is why you never get laid, James. You hate human bodies.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you- One second.”

Natasha’s end went silent, and Bucky busied himself with stacking even  _ more _ towels - seriously, how many fucking towels did these guys need? - while he waited.

After a few more heartbeats of silence, there was a sudden, short, sharp gasp, and then the sound of fabric rustling, followed by a loud  _ thump _ and a kind of gurgling-groan sound that wasn’t as unusual to Bucky’s ears as it might have been.

“As I was saying,” Natasha’s voice was back, not even sounding out of breath, “it’s like you have this impossibly high standard of human perfection that no one will ever meet, and you find all of us mere mortals unworthy.”

“You’re not unworthy,” he pointed out.

“And I’m not a ‘mere’ anything,” she added. “But we slept together once, and as much as I appreciated you trying to muster up enthusiasm for sex with a woman, we aren’t putting either of ourselves through that ever again.”

Bucky thought about trying to argue, but, well, she wasn’t wrong. Besides that, it wasn’t as if Bucky would have even  _ attempted _ sex with another woman - Natasha Romanov was the only woman who could inspire even the mental energy necessary to go down that path. And even then…

“It wasn’t awful.”

“No, it wasn’t awful. But I’m pretty sure you spent the entire time wishing my clit was a dick.”

“You know, from an evolutionary standpoint, the-”

“James, when were you going to tell me about your high school reunion?”

Bucky bit back a groan. 

Natasha was the absolute, undisputed  _ queen _ of changing the subject to a topic guaranteed to make Bucky regret ever speaking in the first place.

“What reunion?”

“James, even you aren’t pretty enough to pull off being that dumb. Your invitation came in the mail a month ago, and it’s just been sitting on your desk ever since.”

“Huh. I could have sworn I threw it away.”

“You did. I put it back on your desk.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but before he could sass her back, he finally caught sight of his target.

Adam Westman was tall, thin, pale, and the man personally responsible for ruining the lives of at least three dozen girls. 

The thing about Bucky’s job was that sometimes it was just work… just a way to earn a paycheck. But sometimes, sometimes - like  _ now _ \- it was also a chance to mete out a little justice.

Bucky abandoned his towel stacking, and instead approached Westman with two towels folded over his left arm. He offered the man a bland, subservient smile, and Westman, still dressed in his sweaty gym clothes, reached for the towels.

All it took was a twist of his hand and a flex of fingers, and Bucky was pushing a syringe full of aconitine into Westman’s wrist.

The man staggered back from Bucky, glaring at him and holding up his wrist where only a thin smear of blood appeared.

“What the hell?” Westman growled.

Bucky pocketed the empty syringe and tried to muster up an apologetic look.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “Must have scratched you.”

In his ear, Bucky could hear Natasha’s amused snort of laughter.

“Idiot,” Westman said, and snatched at the towels in Bucky’s hands.

Bucky bowed his head and waited for Westman to stalk past him and towards the showers.

“So, as I was saying,” Natasha continued to speak, “ explain to me the point of a high school reunion?”

Bucky didn’t immediately answer her, since he was stalking Westman as the man picked out a shower stall and turned the water on. By Bucky’s estimation, the aconitine should begin acting on Westman’s cardiovascular and nervous systems within only a few minutes.

“There is no point,” he muttered once he watched Westman strip and disappear behind his shower stall door.

“Americans are fascinating,” Natasha said. “You’ll have to tell me all about it once it’s over.”

“What- what the hell do you mean?”

“Oh, I sent in your RSVP.”

“Why the  _ fuck _ would you do that?” he demanded, feeling equal parts fury and terror fill him. 

“Because you haven’t been home in ten years, and since I don’t have a home to go back to, or a childhood to relive, you’re obligated to do it for the both of us.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, so dispassionately, that it almost made Bucky think it was logical.

“Besides, you’ll be able to see your family,” she added.

And fuck  _ that _ .

“I haven’t even spoken to them once since I left,” he pointed out.

“Exactly. You won’t be lacking for conversational topics.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Yeah. I’ll get right on telling them about my years as an Army sniper, and then doing wetwork for the CIA before finally deciding to become an independent contractor. So much for us to discuss there.”

“I think so.”

A stuttered cry from Westman’s stall paused their conversation and Bucky rushed over.

He opened the stall door and saw that Westman had fallen and was curled in the corner - one hand clawing at his chest, the other immediately reaching for Bucky. Westman’s eyes were bulging, his mouth open, his skin blotchy.

“Help,” he croaked.

Bucky made a  _ tsking _ sound at him.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Adam,” he said. “You’re going into cardiac arrest - you might also be on the verge of a stroke. Maybe both?”

“I- Help- I can’t- can’t-”

“Sorry, can’t hear you,” Bucky shrugged, and crouched down so that Westman could look directly into his eyes. “But you can still hear me, right? Good. This is what happens to scum who kidnap girls and sell them to their rich friends. And as you’re dying, I want you to remember all of the shitty fucking things you’ve done in your life and realize that no one is going to miss you. Not even your wife - she’s been sleeping with her tennis trainer for the last eight months. Not your son, either. He’s the one who hired me to kill you, by the way.”

Westman gasped, more an attempt to breathe than in reaction to Bucky’s words, he had to assume, but it was satisfying all the same.

“You always did love to play with your food,” Natasha said.

“That’s disgusting. I don’t eat people.”

Bucky stood up and leaned against the stall wall, and watched Westman go through the grotesque final moments of his life.

“Hm. Well. In any case, when you’re at your high school reunion, you can take care of the job that just came in for us. It’s also in Brooklyn.”

“I don’t- I’m not going to my reunion.”

“Oh yes, you are. You RSVPd. Plus, you owe me one.”

Bucky snorted.

“I owe you more than  _ one _ .”

“Exactly. And it’s about time I started to collect.”

Bucky sighed. This was bullshit, but Natasha sounded determined. And they had been partners for long enough that Bucky knew there was no way he was going to convince her to let this drop.

“Speaking of collecting,” he sighed, knowing he had lost, “Pierce is still trying to recruit us to join his little murderers club.”

Natasha made a disgusted noise.

“I know. Remember that job I had in Cancun last week? Rumlow was there too, and he wanted to  _ chat _ about all of the great benefits of going to work for Pierce.”

“Fucking scumbag,” Bucky grunted.

Natasha hummed in agreement.

Bucky decided that Westman was probably dead enough to check for vital signs. 

Sure enough, there were none. 

He snapped a photo for proof of death and sent it off to his client and then to Natasha.

“Oh, nice,” she responded to the texted image.

A moment later, Bucky’s phone showed her response - a photo of her own target, a muscular, olive-skinned man who was easily two and a half times her weight. He was lying at the bottom of a stairwell, neck broken and blood matted along his hairline.

“Pushed him down the stairs? That’s a nice touch.”

“I know. Anyway, I’ve booked a hotel room for you in Brooklyn not far from your old house. Tell me all about your old friends.”

Bucky sighed as he walked away from the showers and started the process of making it look as if he had never even been there.

“Not much to tell,” he lied. 

“Bullshit.”

“Look, what do you want from me? I grew up with these people, and I ran as far away as I could as soon as I could.”

“So there’s no one you want to see again?”

Bucky thought of blond hair and blue eyes, skinned knuckles and a firm jaw and unshakable morals.

“No. No one I want to see again.”

For once, Bucky was able to lie to Natasha convincingly.

If only he could lie to  _ himself _ half so well, he wouldn’t have gone to bed that night thinking of Steve Rogers.

His childhood best friend.

His first crush.

His first kiss.

His first and only broken heart.

-o-

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

* * *

  
  


It wasn’t stalking, Bucky decided.

It was recon.

After all, he couldn’t just show up at Midford High School and bullshit his way through a reunion.

Well, he could - but he didn’t have to, and what’s more, he didn’t want to.

Plus, Natasha had made hotel reservations for him. And while he saw absolutely no reason to spend more time than necessary in Brooklyn, Natasha apparently felt arriving two days before the reunion was a good idea.

She had booked him into The Brooklyn, because she thought she was hilarious, or that maybe Bucky could possibly forget where he was forced to spend the next few days.

The hotel was a refurbished, pre-war brick building that looked remarkably like everything else around Bucky: unfamiliar and achingly nostalgic. He had, after all, walked these streets in his misspent youth. Or well-spent youth. He wasn’t sure.

His room was large, with exposed brick walls and a massive bed and all kinds of accents that made it ‘so trendy and chic’ as Natasha had quoted the Yelp reviews when Bucky groused - once again - over how ridiculous this whole thing was. 

So, he dumped his bags in the trendy, chic room and showered off the feel of airplane travel and shrugged on innocuous clothing - black jeans and a black henley and a black leather motorcycle jacket and black boots - and went out to see just how much had changed, and how much had remained the same.

He didn’t get very far in his survey before he was faced with the one thing, the one person he really, really didn’t want to see or think about or - or anything.

Bucky stepped into a corner coffee shop - some kind of ‘trendy and chic’ place with coffee cans as shades on light bulbs and more exposed brick and a floor that looked like it was made of plastic scraps and cement - and it was all weird.

But it smelled nice, and it was warm, and the coffee, once Bucky was clenching it in his hand and letting the steam curl around his face, was very nearly perfect.

He sat down at a table near the rear, his back protected by a wall, the fire escape within a few steps, his view of the front entrance unimpeded and the large window to his left giving him a view of the cross-section of road.

He was almost able to relax as he sipped on the coffee and leafed through a copy of the local paper, Brooklyn Paper. 

He was fine, was buried in an article on the merits of rooftop gardens and - 

“Large hot chocolate, extra whip cream.”

The voice - that voice - saying an order half the room away had Bucky choking on his coffee and looking up.

And - what - who the -

The man was tall, bigger than Bucky in height and weight and breadth. He was wearing hideously straight legged khakis, a button up shirt and a cardigan. His hair was brown, streaked through with blond that looked like sunlight trying to creep through the chilly spring. His jaw was sharp, jutted out as if he wanted someone to punch it, to punch him. His hands were in his pockets and the way he stood was so very, very familiar. Just as familiar as his voice and his jaw -

The man turned and Bucky hastily snapped his paper up and bent his head down.

He watched, absolutely terrified, as the man paid for his drink, thanked the barista and shoved a five dollar bill into the tip jar and started towards the door.

Fuck.

Bucky abandoned his paper, grabbed his coffee, and followed.

He navigated through almost a mile of pedestrian traffic, bumping shoulders and jerking out of the way of strollers and tiny dogs on leashes and then - 

The man walked inside a building.

A brick building, pre-war, probably renovated to be ‘trendy and chic’.

Bucky didn’t need to follow the man anymore, not when he walked past the entrance and saw that the first floor windows had signs plastered to the large bay windows.

The signs were taped on from the inside, and advertised all manner of things - ESL night classes, beekeeping clubs, 5K events, protests, rallys, food drives, poetry readings, food truck festivals, little league tournaments, chess tournaments.

It was like a joke, or a nightmare.

And then Bucky saw the sign, the hand painted, elegant lettering stenciled onto the glass.

_Steve Rogers, J.D., Attorney at Law_

Below that:

_Sam Wilson, M.S., PhD, Counselor/Therapist_

Bucky stared.

And stared.

What in the actual shit?

The last time he had seen Steve Rogers, the night before graduation, at Dugan’s party, Steve had been five-six and pushing a hundred pounds if he ate an entire pizza by himself. He’d been skinny and fit under Bucky’s chin when they danced and his hair flopped over his eyes and he wore jeans that were too long and loose but somehow looked amazing on his tiny ass and - 

How in the fuck was that man - 

That was Steve?

Bucky couldn’t look away from the window, from the dozens of posters, as if maybe somehow they could answer his question, could explain this alternate reality he had stumbled into, could -

_Get out of BED!_

_Listen to Steve bitch about the world and Sam tell him to quit whining._

_Download new episodes every Tuesday on iTunes._

Steve had a podcast.

Steve Rogers had become some kind of… giant male model, and a lawyer, and had a podcast.

Bucky stumbled back a step, the urge to run conflicting only with the urge to throw himself in front of a car, and he felt the sharp dig of someone’s shoulder in his back.

“Hey dude, watch where you’re going.”

Bucky turned, scowling, ready to mouth off because - well, because.

But, once again, he was stunned.

“Clint?”

Standing in front of him, as buff and lanky as he had been since he hit a growth spurt at age sixteen and started to live in the high school gym and eat every evening meal at the Barnes’ household, Clint Barton stood before Bucky.

“Bucky?!”

And Clint - Clint was wearing a uniform. A fucking Brooklyn PD uniform.

“What the hell happened to you?” Bucky demanded.

The last thing he remembered - Clint had been scouted into the majors, was going to Florida to train with the Red Sox rookie league team. Never, not once in their many, many nights of getting drunk or high, had Clint ever mentioned a desire to become a cop.

“Me, what the hell happened to you? Jesus, fuck man, it’s been - what - ten years? Fuck, dude! No one’s seen or heard of you since graduation.”

Clint was grinning at him, all bright teeth and bright eyes and messy blond hair and Bucky kind of felt like throwing up.

Clint looked from Bucky to the building behind him, and his smile grew.

“You were hanging with Steve? Dude, that’s awesome. He -”

“No,” Bucky cut in before Clint could say anything else. “I - no. Haven’t seen him. Just… walking by.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed.

Everyone had always thought Clint was a dumb jock: pretty and funny and dull. Maybe it was because Bucky had been drawn into too many what the fuck are we doing incidents by Clint - and Steve, and on hellish occassions Clint and Steve - but Bucky had never thought that about Clint. He could play the clown, but Clint was maybe one of the smartest people Bucky had ever met. 

“Right,” Clint drawled. “Walking by. Stalking him?”

Bucky scowled.

“I’m not stalking him. I’m not some… creepy asshole still in love with my high school boyfriend.”

Clint blinked.

Fuck.

Bucky was fucking screwed. Any second now, Clint was -

“Oh my fucking god you poor, sad little bastard.” Clint shook his head and threw one arm around Bucky’s shoulders. He drew him close and rubbed a knuckle over Bucky’s head, pulling his hair out of the loose bun he’d put it in after his shower.

Bucky fought down his first seven instincts - all of which would result in Clint bleeding and broken and dead - and instead shoved at the other man until Clint wrapped both arms around Bucky and gave him a tight, fierce hug.

“Fuck, man, I’ve fucking missed you.”

They had been nine, when Clint adopted ‘fuck’ as the best word in all of the English language, and it had peppered his speech ever since.

Bucky finally got himself free - without injuring Clint, because he wasn’t that twitchy, Natasha - and tried to put his hair and clothes to rights.

Clint just kept grinning at him, that big, bright, stupid grin like when Bucky hit a home run and Clint, always batting third to Bucky’s fourth, stood at home plate waiting to high five him when Bucky crossed the plate.

“C’mon, I’m about to go off shift. You and I are gonna go to a bar and get drunk as hell and you’re gonna tell me what the fuck you’ve been up to all this fucking time.”

Bucky let Clint tug him away from the building, from Steve’s name and Steve’s signs and - and Steve.

While he waited outside of Clint’s precinct - he refused to set foot inside, even as a ‘guest’ - Bucky opened iTunes on his phone and found the podcast.

And downloaded the entire back catalog of episodes.

Recon.

Not stalking.

-o-

  
  
  
  



End file.
